would be hopeless. She had already lost track of the shadow herself.
Niccolo pushed the old man aside roughly and entered his home. “You could burn for this,” he growled as he moved inside.
Diana followed, moving past the shaking old man. She looked at him from the corner of her eyes. He did not meet her gaze, only staring at the floor, one hand clutched to his heart. The poor old fool worried for his son, she could guess easily enough. Perhaps he might even know that his son was a murderer. An odd sense of sympathy washed over her, yet she pushed it immediately from her mind.
She looked around the entrance hall. Above, a host of anguished painted angels emerged from darkened clouds to do battle with red skinned devils that rose up from a crack in the Earth. A host of nude mortals cowered in fear at the sight of the heavenly war. With Siobhan behind her, Diana felt unusually conscious of the painting, something she would have taken for granted in another time. The entire lives of the Firenzians were observed by these silent visitors.
Niccolo returned to the old man and took up his collar in one fist. “Where are his rooms?”
The old man shrank back, one armed raised up over his face. “Up the staircase, to the right.”
Niccolo tossed the man aside and strode for the broad stone stairs. Diana followed once again, her feet disappearing in the thick carpets that covered the stone. A moment later they had the door opened before them.
The quarters of Benedetto’s son were small and, on first glance, unremarkable. The bed, though a four-poster, was small and unmade. The mural on the ceiling showed a scene of the Last Supper, with the apostles gathered around the figure of Christ. Squinting, Diana noted that the paint had been scratched away from all of their eyes aside from Judas. On a table by an open window, a thick candle still burned, its flame resisting the onslaught from the cold night air. A book stood open on the desk, a dull quill cast aside beyond it.
Niccolo looked out the window, head and torso stretching outside. Diana ignored his efforts, turning her attention to the book. The writing was new, as she expected, the page incomplete, a diary. The penmanship was exquisite, loosely flowing and easy to read. She began reading on the open page. “She was there,” the words began, “dark, like a fallen angel, beautiful like a peaceful death. I touched her in the dark, her fear a thing more precious than salvation. I could have killed her, it would have been demanded of me, but she is Isabella’s daughter and I can destroy no part of my beloved Isabella. Sweetest God, what am I to do? What am I to do?”
“He’s mad,” Siobhan said, her voice a whisper in Diana’s ear.
Diana jumped, unaware the Irish woman had drawn so close. “Disfigured and maddened. I pity him. He could be no more wretched a creature.”
Diana read on. “I reached out to drive a knife home in her breast, but you, my God, stayed my hand. You kept me safe from her wrath. For what purpose have you drawn us together? Could Isabella have been right? Do you bring me her daughter to offer me this chance at redemption? Promise me there will be some relief, that you will end my suffering and bring me to the solace of your exquisite presence.” There it ended, the thought no doubt interrupted by their arrival. Before that page in the book were at least a hundred pages of the poor creature’s ravings. Among them might be some clue to her mother’s fate.
“There’s a ladder to the roof.” Niccolo closed the open window with a slam. “What do you have there?”
“His diary. He mentions our confrontation at Madonna delle Grazie.” She glanced at Niccolo. “Who is this man?”
“Pietro Benedetto. He has shown the curse of God in his features since childhood. His father keeps him well in his charity. Until now he has been a harmless aberration, seen out only at night. I’ll need to take the book.”
A fire rose up in the flesh
Niccolo pushed the old man aside roughly and entered his home. “You could burn for this,” he growled as he moved inside.
Diana followed, moving past the shaking old man. She looked at him from the corner of her eyes. He did not meet her gaze, only staring at the floor, one hand clutched to his heart. The poor old fool worried for his son, she could guess easily enough. Perhaps he might even know that his son was a murderer. An odd sense of sympathy washed over her, yet she pushed it immediately from her mind.
She looked around the entrance hall. Above, a host of anguished painted angels emerged from darkened clouds to do battle with red skinned devils that rose up from a crack in the Earth. A host of nude mortals cowered in fear at the sight of the heavenly war. With Siobhan behind her, Diana felt unusually conscious of the painting, something she would have taken for granted in another time. The entire lives of the Firenzians were observed by these silent visitors.
Niccolo returned to the old man and took up his collar in one fist. “Where are his rooms?”
The old man shrank back, one armed raised up over his face. “Up the staircase, to the right.”
Niccolo tossed the man aside and strode for the broad stone stairs. Diana followed once again, her feet disappearing in the thick carpets that covered the stone. A moment later they had the door opened before them.
The quarters of Benedetto’s son were small and, on first glance, unremarkable. The bed, though a four-poster, was small and unmade. The mural on the ceiling showed a scene of the Last Supper, with the apostles gathered around the figure of Christ. Squinting, Diana noted that the paint had been scratched away from all of their eyes aside from Judas. On a table by an open window, a thick candle still burned, its flame resisting the onslaught from the cold night air. A book stood open on the desk, a dull quill cast aside beyond it.
Niccolo looked out the window, head and torso stretching outside. Diana ignored his efforts, turning her attention to the book. The writing was new, as she expected, the page incomplete, a diary. The penmanship was exquisite, loosely flowing and easy to read. She began reading on the open page. “She was there,” the words began, “dark, like a fallen angel, beautiful like a peaceful death. I touched her in the dark, her fear a thing more precious than salvation. I could have killed her, it would have been demanded of me, but she is Isabella’s daughter and I can destroy no part of my beloved Isabella. Sweetest God, what am I to do? What am I to do?”
“He’s mad,” Siobhan said, her voice a whisper in Diana’s ear.
Diana jumped, unaware the Irish woman had drawn so close. “Disfigured and maddened. I pity him. He could be no more wretched a creature.”
Diana read on. “I reached out to drive a knife home in her breast, but you, my God, stayed my hand. You kept me safe from her wrath. For what purpose have you drawn us together? Could Isabella have been right? Do you bring me her daughter to offer me this chance at redemption? Promise me there will be some relief, that you will end my suffering and bring me to the solace of your exquisite presence.” There it ended, the thought no doubt interrupted by their arrival. Before that page in the book were at least a hundred pages of the poor creature’s ravings. Among them might be some clue to her mother’s fate.
“There’s a ladder to the roof.” Niccolo closed the open window with a slam. “What do you have there?”
“His diary. He mentions our confrontation at Madonna delle Grazie.” She glanced at Niccolo. “Who is this man?”
“Pietro Benedetto. He has shown the curse of God in his features since childhood. His father keeps him well in his charity. Until now he has been a harmless aberration, seen out only at night. I’ll need to take the book.”
A fire rose up in the flesh
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